The Dirty Truth

Prick.

His attention bores into me like a lead laser beam, anchoring me in place while simultaneously burning me from the inside out. But I force the sensations away and divert my gaze to the slide projected on the screen behind him.

“Now, where was I?” He turns away from me, and his black suit coat strains against his muscles as if they, too, would prefer not to be trapped in the inhospitable inferno of his atmosphere. “Ah, yes. I was just getting to the merger.”

Merger?

Mergers in the print world almost always mean job cuts.

My core tightens until it burns.

The woman beside me exhales, sinking back into her seat. I scan the sea of faces for my editor, Tom, and pray to be met with a reassuring gaze—only he appears twice as bewildered as everyone else in the room.

“Don’t worry.” With his signature devilish smirk and wicked glint, West lifts his palms as if he’s cheaply entertained by our reactions. “We’re not being sold. Would never dream of that. We’re buying out a competitor.”

A handful of relieved grumbles fills the dense air, and West makes his way to the opposite side of the room as he continues.

“I think you’ve all heard of a little magazine by the name of City Gent?” he asks before shooting a look my way. “For those of us who may not know, City Gent is a niche publication with a reader base not unlike our own but with a local demographic. They have a corner on the Manhattan and tristate market and record rack sales at every corner bodega from Harlem to Chinatown. Turns out the diversified corporation that owns them is looking to get out of print media and reallocate those funds to the tech spheres. But their loss is our gain. Happy to share they accepted my offer yesterday afternoon.” He points to the woman across from me. “With my direction, Miranda Bonham will be handling every aspect of the merger, so any questions you have can be directed to her. Please know this announcement is hot off the presses, so we may not have answers for you right away. Still working out all the minute details of this merger, but we’ll share everything as soon as it becomes available. I have no further information for you at this time.”

A man in a cerulean gingham bow tie and matching glasses raises his hand.

“You.” West calls on him like he’s an attendee at a seminar, because of course he doesn’t know any of our names. Then again, I don’t know that particular man’s name either. Pretty sure he works in accounting and started while I was gone.

“How will this acquisition affect workloads?” the man asks. “Specifically, will we be absorbing more responsibilities, or will we be merging workforces with City Gent’s existing staff?”

West steeples his fingers over his nose and stops pacing. “Any other questions from those of you who were actually listening to what I just said?”

I cringe inside and avert my attention to my paper, focusing on the scratched-out date at the top.

In the corner of my eye, another hand goes up. I close my eyes and wait for Maxwell to verbally slaughter another well-intentioned staffer.

“No comment, Mr. Maxwell,” a woman coos. “Just wanted to offer my congratulations. I think I speak for all of us when I say we’re beyond excited for Made Man’s new chapter.”

Through my peripheral vision, I manage a quick peek at the bold brownnoser, only to find it’s a former intern who wanted my job back in the day.

“Thank you . . .” West pauses and squints, as if he’s attempting to recall her name, and then, without wasting another precious second, turns on his heel and waves it away. The former intern shrinks into her seat, her humbled face curtained by a wall of glossy honey-blonde hair. “Anyone else feel the need to waste my time?”

Silence blankets the room.

“Ah. Nothing from you?” He saunters back to the head of the table, hands sliding into his pockets ever so casually while a serious expression paints his beautiful face. “After missing the first fifteen minutes of this meeting, surely you have a question or two?”

I attempt to swallow, only to choke on my own spit for half a panicked second. Clearing my throat, I shake my head. After the morning I’ve had—on top of the bizarre two months I’ve already endured—getting publicly ridiculed by West Maxwell would only add insult to injury.

“None from me, thanks. I’ll find a colleague and get briefed when they have a chance.” I flash my editor a look.

Tom lifts his hand. “I’ll fill her in after this, sir. No worries.”

“Good answer.” West folds his cognac leather folio in half and clicks off the projector.

A handful of choice words lingers on the tip of my tongue. I could understand his rudeness if it were warranted. I click my pen and flatten my lips to keep from saying something I might regret.